58. August
Two days since my blowup with Ella. I stare at my phone, opening and closing my messages. There’s nothing to say that she’d listen to. Still, I open my texts and consider another apology. I even type it out and hover over the send button. But before I make a decision, a message from Daisy flashes across my screen.
I’m about to swipe it away when I see the preview that reads: Ummm... so your name is AUGUST?!? with a link. I sit up so fast that Swee meows. I can’t press the link quickly enough. And when the page loads, the title of the magazine article shoots so much adrenaline through me that my vision blurs.
the breakup artists:
playing games with the rich and famous
The surprise of Prem Sharma’s infamous Bright Records Summer Bash this year wasn’t the guest list or even the drunk list but his own daughter, Valentine Sharma, and her friend August Mariani, who have the most gossip-worthy business we’ve ever heard of—Summer Love Inc.—an anonymous site where concerned friends and parents fill out a questionnaire about their loved one’s problematic relationship in hopes of hiring these two to facilitate a breakup. Yes, you heard that right—they’re relationship assassins. And to make things even more exciting, they currently have their sights set on the daughter of James Becker, the owner of Boston’s largest hedge fund, or they did before they were publicly outed. We’ve caught the resulting blowup on film.
I send a panicked text to Tiny before I remember her one-line email that said her dad took her phone. So I switch to email, forwarding the article.
I drop my phone, dragging my hands down my face. Disaster. Absolute effing nightmare. But then I pick it back up because it’s impossible to look away. I skim the rest of the article, detailing our website and our claims of success. And that’s when I see it, a quote from Ella’s dad.
“Even though events didn’t unfold the way we expected, Summer Love Inc. did obtain a recording verifying that our daughter’s boyfriend was cheating.”
“God damn it!” I stand up, throwing my phone onto my bed. I’m so mad I can barely think. Ella’s dad gave a quote? But then all at once the realization hits me so hard I feel ill.
Tiny wouldn’t give him the recording. He wanted to ensure Ella’s breakup, and he didn’t trust us. So he publicly accused Justin, knowing Ella couldn’t ignore it. Of all the shitty things to do to his own daughter. I’m so angry my skin feels like it’s on fire.
I pick up my phone, pressing the call button on Ella’s number. But she doesn’t answer. And when I get her voicemail, it tells me her inbox is full. I grab clothes, pulling a T-shirt over my head and running my hands through my messy hair. I head downstairs, but then I remember Mom’s at work and Tiny’s housebound. I have no car.
I call a car, pacing in front of my house for the full seven minutes it takes to show up. When the bright-blue Nissan does appear, I jump in the back seat, tapping my fingers on the armrest for the entire thirty-three-minute drive to Ella’s house. And when it drops me at the entrance of her long driveway, I jog down it, pounding on her front door.
After five excruciating seconds, the door cracks, the maid’s face filling the gap.
“Hi!” I exclaim, and by the way she frowns, I’m sure I look wild. “Is Ella here?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Mr. and Mrs. Becker aren’t home.”
“If I could just talk to Ella for one—”
“Sorry,” she says again and closes the door.
I turn around, walking two steps down the driveway and pulling out my phone to text Ella, when I suddenly remember her story about the balcony. If I could find which window is hers, maybe I could yell to her? I look up at her house, but there are no balconies in the front. So I head for the wooden gate that leads to the backyard, pulling it open before I can think about the million reasons this is a bad idea.
After all of the crap luck I’ve had recently, I get a reversal. She’s already outside, sitting on a small balcony adjacent a third-story window.
“Ella?” I say, jogging to the grass below her.
She wipes the backs of her hands over her eyes, but it’s impossible to cover the fact that she’s been crying. Her eyes widen as she registers me.
“Ella, I’m sorry,” I call up to her. I glance at the latticework on the side of her house, which I could potentially climb to get to her. “I’m so... God, I’m an idiot. Worse than an idiot. I should have told you the truth. You have every right to hate me. But I need you to know—” I hesitate, my emotions sticking in my throat.
But she doesn’t respond. She just climbs back into her room, closes the window, and draws her curtain.
I’m left on her lawn, my chest tight, staring up at her empty balcony.